


Love is the Prerogative of the Brave

by tosca1390



Category: Beauty and the Beast (Disney) (1991)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:38:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It was a familiar path to the West Wing; she had taken it in secret, in curiosity, in desperation. Now, she took it for answers. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is the Prerogative of the Brave

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Porn Battle Eleven](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/472424.html). Prompt: _Belle/Prince Adam, painting of the Beast, hideaway_.

*

They all looked exactly as Belle pictured them to be as humans. In the quiet snow-silent nights, in her cold castle bedroom, she’d gone over each one of them in her mind’s eye, using that fabled imagination all that reading had brought her and given them human shape and spark. Whoever had changed them had gotten them all correctly, from Mrs. Potts and Lumiere and Cogsworth all the way down to the silverware and the dusters.

The Beast— _Adam_ —she had never quite reckoned out. From the transition to creature to prince, the only feature she really recognized were the eyes—blue and deep and seared into her heart. But his face was foreign, his voice was pitched differently, and though she knew they were the same inside, she couldn’t bring the two dissonant appearances together.

So after the fight and the horrible moment when she’d thought he was gone, and it was all her fault ( _because it had been, truly, and how he could forgive that, she didn’t understand_ ); after she kissed him and the castle came alive with blood and breath once more; even after all the servant celebration and the Beast— _Adam_ —acting so wildly joyous, she still found herself hiding in the library two days later, in the safe vastness of parchment and ink. This was her hideaway, as the West Wing was his.

Magic only did so much for dust and moth balls; even floors and rooms away, Belle could hear the servants cleaning and murmuring. She didn’t know where _he_ was—she thought making amends with the villagers, reaching out, doing royal, princely things, of which she had no real knowledge. In her quiet corner of the library, her favorite novel open across her lap, she skimmed across the pages without seeing, remembering the feel of his mouth on hers, the firm circle of his arm across the small of her back.

In all the books she’d ever read, a kiss meant marriage. Marriage meant settling down, growing roots; hadn’t she resisted the first time not only because it had been Gaston, but because of its limitations? In any case, only princesses married princes, and she had no silly fantasies about finding a secret royal lineage in her past. So that was the end of this whole adventure, wasn’t it?

Early spring sun curled pale yellow across the wide sleek floor of the library. Belle watched its path, thinking of the snow melting outside, the last dregs of winter. She had only seen this place in the cold of a late winter; she wanted to watch it thrive in spring and summer, to see it turn in autumn—she did not want to leave.

Before she really knew what she was doing, she left her book in her chair as her feet moved silently across the floor and into the corridor. It was a familiar path to the West Wing; she had taken it in secret, in curiosity, in desperation. Now, she took it for answers.

At the doorway, she had to halt from sheer surprise. Pale sunlight filled the wide, airy room. The broken furniture was cleared away, replaced with new chairs and tables. A tall, wide, ornate bed stood proudly where the slumped, cracked one had been just days ago. The cracked mirrors were gone, the art and tapestries restored—it was the perfect picture of a prince’s quarters.

Including the prince, standing near the doors to the balcony.

Belle held her breath, watching him for a moment. In the light, he looked like a stranger once more, his hair a thick gold, like honey. In his broad hands he held a torn portrait; he stared at it broodingly, and again, in that gaze, she saw the Beast she had grown to love. In her heart, she felt a quickening ache, lingering and spreading; she felt as if she was living in one of her novels, and this was the horrible goodbye that came with every star-crossed pair.

No; the time for this was not now. It was better to delay, to stave off her departure until the last moment—

Under her feet, the floor creaked. His head turned to her, his face lighting up. “Belle!”

She could feel an unfamiliar blush on her cheeks, surely as pink as her gown. “I didn’t mean to disturb you—“

He set the portrait aside, on the small table that once housed a magical rose. “No, you’re not at all. I’ve wanted to come—“ He stopped short, and in that, she saw another snippet of her Beast, the nerves with words. “I thought you needed time. But I’m glad you’ve come.”

Why had this been easier when he had been a hulking creature covered in fur? “It looks different in here,” she said after a moment, coming further into the room. She was no coward; he was the same as he had been when he’d roared into her face and she had stood her ground.

He smiled; in it, she had the memory of reading to him by firelight, feeling quite at home. “Mrs. Potts’s work, I confess.”

“What are you looking at?” she asked before she could bite her tongue, her curiosity beating out any instincts of self-preservation.

His face darkened. “Nothing.”

She raised her brow. “It doesn’t appear to be _nothing_.”

“You aren’t one to be satisfied easily,” he murmured.

For a moment, she thought of his mouth on hers, the burn there, the longing she had walked the halls with for two days now. “No,” she said finally, walking all the way to him.

Even as a human, he still towered over her, a whole head taller or more. She could feel his eyes on the top of her head as she bent over the portrait, her fingers tracing a familiar path in realigning the torn edges of a now-known face. “When was this painted?” she asked after a moment, her gaze fixed on the portrait.

“One month before the spell was placed upon the castle. It reminds me of what I once was,” he said, an odd sort of self-loathing edging his words.

With that, a whole dam of questions flooded her tongue. “Why did it happen?” she asked, looking up.

“I was cruel to an old woman who was an enchantress in disguise,” he said simply, earnestly.

For once, she didn’t know what to say, other than the obvious, for it seemed so unlike the man/beast in front of her. “Why?”

He glanced out towards the balcony. The slow drip of melting ice and snow echoed between them in the silence. “Because I could. I did not know any better. I was not taught any better.”

As he looked outwards, she watched him, unashamed. His hair was loose around his shoulders, the bones of his face prominent, strong; two days ago, she had said _it is you_ , and she knew it was. But he was a prince now, and she was still just the inventor’s daughter.

Abruptly, he turned back to her; his gaze made her shiver, her toes curling in her slippers. “Now I do, thanks to you.”

His hand grazed her waist, his touch warming her through the soft fabric of her dress. Glancing back down at the portrait, she took a moment to turn it over, the back now facing up. “You can have a new portrait done,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze.

He looked bashful once more; as when he had presented the library to her. His hand cupped her hip, his head bent towards hers. “Belle, I—I spoke to your father yesterday.”

Now _that_ was a conversation she would want to hear. “What on earth did you talk about?”

He raised a brow. “I asked for permission to marry you.”

At a loss, she said the first thing to come to mind (as she was wont to do). “Shouldn’t you ask me first?”

It was his turn to be surprised. “I—Yes, I suppose. I’m sorry—“

“I’m not a princess,” she interrupted, flushing again.

“That doesn’t matter to me,” he said firmly, pulling her closer into the frame of his body. “I love you.”

He had never said that out loud before. She swallowed hard, and rested a hand on his chest. He was simply dressed, only a thin shirt and breeches; she could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric. “Will you take me places?” she asked after a moment.

His free hand touched her cheek. “You were made for adventure, Belle. I could hear it in your voice when you read to me,” he said with an easy smile. “I’ll go wherever you wish.”

In that moment, the Beast of her memory coalesced with the prince in her arms. Slowly, her mouth curled into a smile. Now, she didn’t want to talk anymore. The ache in her chest curled into happiness as she crept up onto her toes and kissed Adam. “Yes,” she whispered into his mouth, as his arm wrapped around her, his whole body a brand onto hers. “Yes.”

Their solitude in his hideaway proved fortuitous. Belle was not one for tradition; she loved stories and tales from all walks of life, and had made acquaintances with the town harlot years ago (another reason to say no to Gaston—she’d heard all she needed to know from Marguerite on that end). She was also well-read, and hardly a coward. So, it was perfectly natural to shuck him of his shirt, press him back with kisses and caresses towards his soft, comfortable bed (which she could safely assume would be theirs). They sank into the bedding and pillows; she closed the drapes around them.

For a moment, as she perched astride his hips, letting her hair loose, he looked skittish.

“I—I’ve never—“

She loved him even more for all of that, for the way he confessed his lack of experience in the same sheepish way he’d confessed forgetting how to read. “I love you,” she whispered to him, cutting him off with a kiss.  
Her fingers traced the scars and marks he had gathered as the Beast, from wolves and Gaston and his own rages. Her mouth covered his over and over, as his hands grew brave and touched the bare skin of her breasts, her hips, between her thighs. As she curled her fingers around his length, and he gasped and choked out her name, she was reminded of how close she had been to losing him. She never wanted to take that risk again.

Later, the water still dripped off the balcony, filling in the silence around them. His hand lay across her stomach, his head on her breast. Her ankle slipped between his.

“Thank you for coming back,” he whispered into the warm, heavy air.

She carded her fingers through his hair, thick and coarse as his fur had been. Remnents of pleasure still shuddered through her, a slow long burn. “You shouldn’t thank me. I nearly killed you,” she said, a thick burn creeping behind her eyes.

Adam lifted his head. “No. You saved me,” he said, all simplicity and earnestness. He covered her breast with his warm hand as he kissed her once more, the confidence in his movements growing moment by moment.

Belle kissed him with no hesitation, arching into his touch. Already she imagined the adventures they would have together, the things they would learn and teach other. It was better than any book she might read.

But she would keep the library all the same.

*


End file.
